Did You See The Blood Run Down?
by Wasting The Day
Summary: What happens when you're destined to become more powerful than anyone else? When you're destined to go to New Orleans and find a man you didnt know? Destined to kill and rule the world while all you really want is to find love and be a human?
1. Finding a Drunk

[disclaimer: no, I dont own any of the following characters except the protagonist who emerged from my own imagination. all references from here on out to Marvel Comic's characters are obviously used without permission (like any of us has permission anyways). ]

  


Did You See The Blood Run Down?

**Part One:** _Finding a Drunk_  
  


  
            The streets were crowded with people. Paper flew through the air, creating the illusion of snow falling. She folded the wings, and stood atop the iron staircase, just off Bourbon Street. The mystery woman looked about. This was her destination, the place she foreseen to go to ten years prior. Why, she didn't know, except to find a man, lying in the street somewhere. All she had to go on was a song, a memory, and an instinct that this man existed. Partygoers wandered by, one commented on the wings. She retracted them, and walked down the stairs to the cobblestone streets that is New Orleans. Masked faces haunted her shadows, beer cups littered her path. Where was this man?   
  
            The young woman circled the outer streets, checked every dark corner and dimly lit alleys she came across. Still no luck. Happy faces clogged her view, brightly clad couples snuck off into previously empty alleys for a snog. Just when she was about to give up hope, an idea came. Maybe the man was not hiding in the outer streets, maybe instead she should look where the lights and action was.

   
            She headed out into the open, wings long since gone, and stole a mask from an empty café table before joining the crowd. Blend in was her rule, and she did it remarkably well. No one seemed to notice she was alone; the majority of the crowd was to far intoxicated to notice such small details. Her eyes scanned the growing crowd; he was not in her line of vision. Yet she sensed he was near, and began a search of the open cafés and bar's. Most were packed, but after only a dozen steps inside or so, she knew he was not there. It was in the 3rd bar, halfway down from her starting point, that she saw a familiar face. But no, she thought, it couldn't be. The girl was slim, of average height, but stood out from the crowd. White hair merged with the girls' auburn hair, obviously natural. Her body was outfitted in black (nothing weird about that, she thought, looking at her own attire) but she wore gloves in the muggy, smoke filled air of the bar, along with a long-sleeved shirt. The mystery girl seemed to be looking for someone, as well, but seemed to have as much luck as the winged mistress. They met eyes. A warning bell rang in her head, and as quickly as she'd seen the girl, the girl was gone. Was this odd woman looking for the same thing as she? Possible, yes, but not likely. After all, New Orleans housed many people, from many places. She continued her search.

   
            It was well past 2 in the am when she entered her last bar. The café's had closed an hour ago, leaving her with bars and whatever alley's she'd left uncovered. Something inside her told her this was the place. She was right.   
  
            Arguing with the barkeep was a man, no more than 6 foot in height, of sound build and beauty to even seduce Cleopatra. It seemed that this fight had been started much earlier. Scorch marks painted the walls black, wood chips from blown up tables carpeted the flood, while the stench of bad beer and sweat perfumed the air. The barkeep was holding a shotgun at the man, who seemed to want nothing more than another beer. However, lying in the shadows were drunken, passed out men, shirts with burn holes, holding empty glasses and broken bottles.   
  
             "_Donnez-moi plus de bière! Plus bière monsieur!_" the young man waved about an empty ale glass.  
            "No more beer! You've caused havoc in my bar!" he waved the shotgun wildly about, she doubted it was loaded, and kept more for scaring than shooting.  
             "_Monsieur, plus biere, si vous plait? _ Ah jus' wan some more..." the voice bounced along the walls, the southern French bayou accent tingling down her spine.  
            "Excuse me, sir, but I think I can help." She stepped closer to the bar, careful of the drunken Cajun.  
            "Ah yah? How? This man here's drunk, unless you can get 'im out, I'm afraid you cant do nothing" his bad English made her shudder.  
            "No, see, _monsieur,_ this man here's _mon cousin. Ma mere _sent me out looking for him. He's got a bad drinking habit, see?"  
            "Ah dun know you, _cher_, but ah'd like to if you'd jus' gemme some more beer..."and he was out. The drunk Cajun fell to the floor with a thud, and promptly began snoring.  
            "You need help, lady? I've seen this man before. You not really 'is cousin, aint you?" the barkeep lowered the shotgun and came out from behind the bar.  
            "_Non,_ I don't need any help, sir. And yes, he's not my cousin. Actually I don't know who he is, but he's going with me. Thank you for not shooting him," she said, hoisting the now drooling man to his feet. She had quite a time half walking, half dragging the drunk outside, and into an empty alley. It's not that he was heavy for her, oh no, but more that she didn't want to draw more attention to the pair than they were already receiving.  
  
            Once in the alley, the wings reproduced themselves from her back, and off they flew into the unusually warm February night.


	2. Good Morning to the Drunk in my bed

[disclaimer: no, I don't own any of the following characters except the protagonist who emerged from my own imagination. all references from here on out to Marvel Comic's characters are obviously used without permission (like any of us has permission, anyways). Story is _loosely_ based upon the X-Men movies, X-Evolution cartoon, and the comics.]

  


Did You See The Blood Run Down?

**Part Two**:_ Good Morning to the Drunk in my bed_.

They landed on a wrought iron hotel balcony, not far from the bustling avenues of New Orleans's waterfront. The room itself was small, but cozy. She placed the sleeping Cajun in the bed before heading downstairs to the lobby to use the only phone in the place.

She wasn't sure whom she was calling, or for that matter, why, except this seemed the only person who was sure of what was going on.  Carefully dialling the number for the New York residence, she waited for someone to pick up.

"Xavier Institute" a sleepy voiced yawned from the other side.

"Hello? May I speak to the Professor? Its urgent." 

"Ah, yes, of course. Whom may I tell him is calling?"

She hesitated…her name? Why must she give the person her name?

"Hello, miss? Are you there?"

"Yes, sorry, tell him its…_L__e Voleur_". A brief pause on the other end, and a male voice came over the line.

"Did you find him?"

"Yes, but...how did you know I was calling…about _him?_" Amazed, she waited for the answer.

"My dear, I always know. Will you be coming north with him, at all?"

"I'm not sure. I don't even know why I really found him, remember sir? It's still all a blur to the exact reason. Do you think he has my answers?"

"Answers? No, no one has the answers you seek, not even me. However, I highly suggest coming north soon. Get him out of New Orleans as soon as possible. He is in danger there, that I know, and I know you know it as well."

"Yes, I know that too. I saw it not to many days ago. I've spent to much time talking, sir, should I contact you later on?"

"Yes, please, _Voleur_, keep me updated. Goodnight." A sharp click, and the line went dead. Uneasy by this brisk conversation, she headed back up stairs. The Cajun was sleeping exactly as she left him. Pulling a blanket off the bed, and a pillow from under his head, she curled up on the chaise, and promptly fell asleep.

As the sun rose, so did the Cajun. He discovered himself inside a bed he did not know, a room he did not remember, and looking out a window to a building he did not recognize.

"_Bien, Remy, bien_. You wake up ina room o' some stranga. Why couldn't ah keep mah hands to mahself?" Rising, he didn't notice the girl sleeping in the chaise to his left, and went into the bathroom. The sound of water running, however, woke the girl. Rubbing her head, she noticed him not in bed, as well as the sun just rising. She'd only received a mere 3 hours of sleep, after the events of last night. While waiting for the man to leave the bathroom (where he was currently humming a tune), she got dressed, picked up the bed, and sat facing the bathroom door.

The handle turned, the door swung open.

"Who the hell are _you?_"

***

The Cajun stood mouth a gap in the bathroom doorway. Steam rolled out from behind him, as he protectively clutched a threadbare towel to himself.

"Good question, _monsieur_, but I do believe the question is, _who are you?_" she stood. Although she was on the short side, she knew how to cast an impression and she did. Speechless, he moved farther into the room.

"Ah am what's known as the 'Ragin Cajun' in these parts. And you, _mademoiselle_?" 

" 'Ragin Cajun'. What's your real name, love?"

" Ah ah. Not until…" he shook his finger, and plopped himself down upon the bed, waiting.

" _Le Voleur_, if you must know. Or, perhaps, I'm better known as the 'Thief' in _l'anglais_."

"_Le Voleur_, eh, _petit_? _Je suis Remy Lebeau_" he held out his hand for her to shake. 

Carefully, she shook it. Remy did not release it, but rather inspected it, fingering the leather of her glove. "Gloves, in New Orleans? Jus' what kind o' thief are you? And why am ah here?" he still held her hand.

"Thief of everything and anything. And you are here because I really don't know. Except you are in trouble, no?"

"Trouble, _oui_, ah'm always in _trouble_. But do tell me more about this thieving thing…do you steel jewels along with _hommes_ you find?" her hand was being held hostage.

"If you don't mind, sir," her hand became free with a tug, "I found you drunk in a bar, arguing with a man who had a shotgun. As for jewels and other baubles, no. I steal other things, things you couldn't possible conceive." It was then she noticed his eyes, unlike any eyes she'd seen. Instead of being white with a coloured iris, they were black, with red irises. Unusual, as were his clothes he'd been dressed in. 

"_Cher_, ah'm nothing _you_ could conceive. Ah can cause more damage than most _hommes_ alive.

"Sir, I highly doubt that. But until we can converse more on this matter, do yourself a favour, and get dressed." Voleur walked out of the tiny room and onto the French balcony; the suns' rays were already piercing through the mist that had settled over the waterfront early that morning. It was a beautiful scene, something she promised herself she wouldn't forget for awhile. Behind her, she could hear him rustling about with his dirty clothes. She couldn't help but smile; yes this man was good looking, with his chin length chestnut hair, strong hands, and those eyes…eyes like none other. Freakishly wonderful, she found them, the red being so strong, and the black being so mysterious..

"Ahem" the raspy accented voice coughed from behind her. "D'you wish to get breakfast or jus' stay 'ere all day?"

"Breakfast sounds grand. Do you know anyplace?" she turned, trying to conceal her emotions. He really was good looking.

"_Non_, not around 'ere." He lied. "The clerks should, could you go an' ask 'em, _si vous plait?"_

"Why not…but just stay here will you? No tom foolery, all right?" she said as she crossed the room, and left, latching the door behind her. Remy smirked, and reached for a worn duffle bag he'd spotted in a corner, before taking his shower. Admittedly, "Le Voleur" seemed more of a secret missions name, he had a hard time believing anything she said, too. Opening it up, he came across some personal clothing, a few dog biscuits (with no dog in sight or smell, either), and 3 leather-bound passports. Exactly what he was looking for, but why three? Flipping the first one open, he read the I.D. 'Iris d'Orleans. Place of Birth: San Francisco, California.' The second one was different: 'Iris McMahon. Place of Birth: Fife, Scotland.' The third bared no connections to the other. In fact, it wasn't even a passport, but more of a log, listing places in North America, Brazil, Scotland, England, Germany, complete with names next to each country. Why did she have these? He wondered. Yes, she did speak like an American, but he did detect a foreign accent. It was obvious to him she was an enigmatic nomad, judging by the list of countries. But who were these people? And most of all, who was she?


	3. Bang, You're Dead

**[**disclaimer: no, I don't own any of the following characters except the protagonist who emerged from my own imagination. all references from here on out to Marvel Comic's characters are obviously used without permission (like any of us has permission, anyways). Story is _loosely_ based upon the X-Men movies, X-Evolution cartoon, and the comics.]   
  
**Side Note: I am tired of writing everything Remy says in "De Nawlens Ac'ent". So, from here on out, you just have to imagine it. Face it; it's a hard thing to do. Easy to speak, hard to write, y'know?**  
  
  
  


Did You See The Blood Run Down?  
**Part Three: Bang, You're Dead.**  
  


"Remy, the owner said… You! Get out of there!" Iris had walked into the room, to find Remy going through her bag.  
"_Cher_, d'you really think you could keep secretes from a fellow thief?" He shrugged, and replaced the books.  So the girl had some hidden identities, and liked to travel, he thought, no big deal. In truth, he probably concealed more from his peers than he liked to share.  
"What did you think you were doing? LeBeau, that is _my_ bag. Its in that corner for a reason. Zipped. Meant for you, and others, to keep-"  
"But dog biscuits, _cher?_ D'you have a pet hidden?" He smirked. Let her try and answer that one.  
"Ah, yes… You'll find out eventually, LeBeau," she said, sighing. There wasn't really anything she could do to him. As she'd said, eventually he would of found everything out. However, Iris hoped it would have been on her standards, not his snooping around her bag; but that's what she gets for leaving it out. "Right now, I guess, we should go get some breakfast…grab your coat," and with that, they left the room.  
  
  


***

  
  
  
"So, exactly who are you?" Remy said between mouthfuls of an omelette he'd ordered.  
"Well, what d'you mean? 'Who am I'? That question has so many answers."   
"Starting with your name, followed by where you're _really_ from, et then…the _other_ book, oui?"  
"Mmm… My name… Iris…d'Orleans. So yes, the San Francisco birthplace is _correct_. However, so is the Scotland one. I lived on the West Coast up until about 5 months ago, and then I ran from home. The 'other book' as you so called it, is actually only a log of places, places I've been, and found others." She took a bite of her toast, and before Remy could ask about who they were she found, she continued. "Others, like you and I. I take it you only saw the first page, oui? Those countries are places where I've been 'called' to, by something in my head, to find people. Its much like how I found you. In Brazil, I found a boy named Roberto. In England, a man with wings; Germany, a little blue elf; I receive the vision, I go after them."  
Remy was silent. Either this girl was nuts, or what she said was the truth. But visions? She could foresee the future? Was this how she found him? What else could she do? "I don't think I fully understand…what are these 'visions'? Why did you find me?"  
"It's a complicated, tragic story about _how_ I got the ability to have visions. One day, I assure you, you'll find out. I've already foreseen that. But, uh, I don't know why I found you. Some big plan in this universe…possible I was meant to suck the life out of you, and 'absorb' whatever mutant abilities you have…that's what it's always been in the past…mmm…that's quite possible." Iris mumbled the last bit to herself. It was true, but it wouldn't make sense to steal from Remy. What he had she already possessed, deep down inside.   
"_Excusé moi?_ 'Suck the life out of me'? D'you mean to _kill_ me, _cher?_ Because if you-"  
"No, no, nothing like that. I have every good intention…" She stopped. Something was coming into view, an image, and a voice.  
  
_"Remy Lebeau, from this point on you are exiled from New Orleans for the death of Julien Boudreaux.." A man standing, surrounded by others, said to the kneeling figure on the ground. Behind him stood more people. It seemed to be some sort of hidden meeting hall, and the two crowds were separate. In the farthest corner, a small woman in a white gown wept, as did the man on the floor. As he rose, she rushed to him._  
_"Gambit, my Gambit, I'll love you forever" she embraced him, before he was removed by 3 large bodyguards. They dispelled him outside the door, then slamming it in his face. With a loud click, the door was locked, and Remy, tears streaming down his reddened cheeks, turned his back and walked away._   
  
  
"You all right?" he asked. She'd gone silent in the middle of her sentenced. Iris's eyes had glazed over, and she'd become extremely still, as if in a trance. But no, now she was awake, blinking her eyes, and staring at him.  
"I don't know how to tell you this…but… Gambit, I have some bad news for you." She took the liberty to use the name the woman called him. But, how could she tell him what she saw? But worst of all, she didn't know when this was happening. It was obvious by the woman's clothes it was a wedding day. His wedding? Was the Cajun married? She saw no ring…could this of already happened?  
"You're being exiled, for murder." Her head dropped, she was about to cry. The poor man.  
"I already know that, _cher_…it's a done deal. Maybe that's why you're here..._Cher?_ Hello?" he waved his hand in front of her, but her eyes were glazed over again. What _did_ she see?  
  
_Fire was burning in the hotel. As the customers and employee's rushed out the front door, chaos brewed up on the top level. A group of thuggish men, maybe a dozen, she couldn't tell, stood about Remy. Each pointed a gun, the silver gleam of a sword flashed in the firelight.  One raised his gun higher…and pulled the trigger. Somewhere, church bells struck midnight._  
  
"We need to leave the city."  
  


***

  
  
"Pardon, again, but leave the city? _Êtes-vous fou? Partez de ma maison? Ma Nouvelle-Orléans? Vous __êtes_ fou!" He rose out of his chair with the last few words, and stormed out of the restaurant, his tattered trench coat floating behind him.   
Slamming what she hoped was enough money to pay for the meal on the table, Iris grabbed her gloves and ran after him. Stopping in the middle of the street, she spotted him already a block away, running as fast as he could towards the French Quarter. Oh no you dont, she thought, and began to run after him, slipping on her gloves. Although she didnt close the gap between them, she didnt lag either. But Remy was to far ahead, and she needed to get up there faster. She had many options to choose from : stop him in his tracks, run faster, or just leave him to die. Although she might possibly kill him if she wasn't careful, she decided to take the second option : run faster. Quickly, she ducked into the nearest alley.   


***

  
  
Out of breath, Gambit ducked into a bar. Peering out of the dirty window, he couldnt see her up or down the street. The only thing moving quickly was a large, white dog. Dropping into an empty chair, he signaled the barkeep for a large gin and tonic.  Remy was quite relaxed, and on his way to a drunken stupor, when the white dog walked through the door. He did a double take the canine was not a dog, but rather, a large wolf. Almost to large, it seemed. It trotted over to his table, and leapt up into the empty wooden chair across from him. Why did this creature ring a bell…and then he remembered. Iris's bag contained dog biscuits. But, no, that wasnt possible. Although, it continued to stare at him, he noticed it had blue eyes. Deep, penatrating, blue eyes. And the snow white fur, had infact, traces of auburn through it. A beautiful creature, he thought, but eerie. But why did it seem to familiar ?  
  



	4. Gambling With Death

[disclaimer: no, I dont own any of the following characters except the protagonist who emerged from my own imagination. all references from here on out to Marvel Comic's characters are obviously used without permission (like any of us has permission anyways). ]

**Side Notes:**

** + I am tired of writing everything Remy says in "De Nawlens Ac'ent". So, from here on out, you just have to imagine it. Face it; it's a hard thing to do. Easy to speak, hard to write, y'know?**

 + **I used some French as well. The translation is at the end of the paragraph. **   
  


Did You See The Blood Run Down?

**Part Four:** Gambling With Death

Impossible, right? For an animal to be as intelligent to stare into the depths of your soul, making the guilt you feel to bubble to the surface? This, Remy did not know. For in front of him sat an animal of great strength and beauty, jaws like steel, eyes like ice, intelligence emanating from its very self. Chugging back his tepid, suddenly vile-tasting beer.  Through the past ten minutes, it had not moved once, the wolf sat as if frozen in its place. Alas, no, it moved, its finely carved head looking at the barkeep to their right. The salmon colored nose moved in rapid jerks, sniffing for others. Leaping down, it turned tail, back out the door. Sighing with relief from the sentinel, he signaled his gloved hand towards the barkeep: another beer.

In an alleyway, one short trot from the bar's front door, the white vision turned. Behind a dumpster, it disappeared, shielding the transformation from the pedestrians. From four legs, it stood on two, very human legs. The front paws elongated themselves into hands shielded by gloves, the torso grew longer, forming the curves of a woman in a black top. From the chest emerged two perfectly shaped breasts, followed by the graceful curve of the neck. The muzzle shortened into a delicately upturned nose, the eyes rounded themselves out, ears shortening into a kidney bean shape, and the fur of the head going from short and white, to long and auburn, down the back. In all of 10 seconds, the white wolf had become the Angel of Death, the Thief of life, and the woman named Iris. 

Iris sauntered back into the bar, going right for the table she was previously at.  Remy, barely into the fresh tankard, paused in mid-swallow. _Ah!_ He thought, _she found me! _

"Aye, Remy, here you are. On your way to being drunk again, I see. Well, lad," she stopped. Again, why did she bother warning these people of their ultimate fate? a virtuoso of the fortunes, and the martial arts (which, she had to credit a fellow mutant, Domino, for the skill), why was she mixing with these eventual death-bodies, and she liked to call them. They lived and walked among the living, their grave being only a few hours, or days, away, depending on if she felt like taking a life in their presence.  

"Mon dieu, I do not believe in those hocus-pocus arts of yours. I am the cat man of New Orleans, the burglar from the bayous, nothing evades my senses. For you to think," no, not to think. Didn't she say that these visions were controlled by something, not her?

"Remy, please. This will only end in tragedy. Like I said earlier, I am not here to kill you, or steal from you. You and I share a few things in common. Mutants, yes. Street urchins, yes. You had camaraderie in a group of thieves and murderers, I have nothing, yet. Please, let us leave tonight. Find the North Star and follow it to the inevitable destiny we share." North, yes, north. North to safety, haven, a home free of judgment, peril is left in the dust, immunity is granted to all who pass the gates.  

"Non, I refuse to leave my city. I do not believe you. I have been exiled, aye, but that does not mean I cannot seek refuge in the shadows of the night, and the tourists of the day. I gamble, cher, and death is a gamble."

"_Non, jeu avec la mort__. __Vous ne jouez pas avec la mort, je jeu avec vous_. My dearest Gambit, you will die at the stroke of midnight, the hotel will be your hell, but the way you chose to die by the men on the roof, is yours. Not mine. Enjoy your last meal. " With that, the dark lady rose from the scarred wooden table, turned heel to the disaster still sitting, and entered the street. Time to find a way to get to the end of her journey.

_[***** Death is not a gamble. You do not play with death, I play with you]_

***

The shadowed figure crept over the wall, under the bushes, up the fire escape, into the room. Neat and orderly, it was as if no one lived there. It grabbed a bag, and left the way it came, just as the door knob was turning. In walked a man of good height, shaggy hair, and a lit cigarette. The pristine room clashed with the grunge of his appearance. Unfortunately, he did not smell what the intruder before him did : a presence of gunpowder and evil.  Not bothering to turn on a light, he plopped down on a bed, turning towards the window in time to see a bulky figure race light-footed up the fire escape next to the window. Intrigued, he followed blindly. 

            Grabbed from the rear, he was forced down on the graveled roof. The sharp clicks of guns, and the metallic sounds of swords against scabbards rung in his ears. Moving his eyes up, Remy looked into the eyes of an ex comrade, Jondeu. .

            "Jondeu, mon frere, why?" A heavy boot shoved his mouth back down.

            "We said _exiled_, Lebeau, banishment.  You have been caught, after the ostracism, the only way to redeem yourself, is death.  We could kill you, god knows we've the resources available here, or throw you into the fiery pits of hell, in the room you lay in the night before." He gave off a cachinnated sound, full of cruelty. At the sound of the church bells striking half past eleven, the gears began to tick in Remy's alcohol laden brain. Iris said he'd be dead at midnight; the hotel would be on fire, and his choice of instrument of death would be his. Well, he'd been presented with a few options: burn, capitation, or pumped full of lead.  None appealed to him, of course.

            "Well, Lebeau, which shall it be, eh? How shall we kill the King of New Orleans?" Jondeu struck the motionless captive with the blunt end of the gun. Blood ran down Remy's forehead, into his eyes. A heavy boot crashed into his ribs, another into the small of his back. He felt the prick of a dagger in his arm, and watched it retreat into a pocket. More blows came from all angles now, as he was immobile, unable to protect himself.  Quicker, and harder they came, a cacophony of grunts and yells. 

            On the verge of blackout, Remy took what he thought would be his last breath, when a flash of red passed over him, illuminating the rooftop. Another beam of the same color went over his head. He could hear the thuds of the abusers falling down. Leaping to his feet, he noticed how dense smoke was now, and the quickly rising heat from below.  Left and right flew flashes of red, and occasionally a blue beam. It wasn't until he'd reached the side of the wall that he noticed two things were wrong. Where were the fire trucks to put out the blaze, and why was the ground growing colder, as if covered by a sheath of ice?

            Unknown to him, Death herself, the thief of all life, had watched from a rooftop not far away, and decided to spare a life that night.


End file.
